Four Eighths
by Moon Raven2
Summary: Inspired by Kavi's prompt! Two members of the team have an unofficial "one night stand" arrangement every January eighth. What will happen when their fourth eighth arrives and they're snowed in?
1. Just One Night

**Four Eighths**

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**a/n:** I blame Kavi for this completely. She and her prompts...

This time the prompt was to have two agents, any two, who previously had some sort of "one night stand" type arrangement stranded together longer than one night because of some sort of natural disaster/inclement weather/what have you. I'm not going to tell you yet who the two agents are I've picked; hence the very short lil intro tease chapter.

I've rated it T, because M is a bit too strong. There will be definite...ah...suggestive bits, but nothing terribly blatant.

I have this story completely written; I forced myself to finish it before I started publishing so I wouldn't get caught in a quagmire a la "Still Right Here."

Enjoy, and let me know what you think with a review!

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**Chapter 1: Just One Night**

**And tomorrow,  
Back to being friends.  
Lovers...love...lovers  
Just for tonight, one night.  
And tomorrow say goodbye.**  
-Dave Matthews, "Say Goodbye"

It had started on a whim. They'd been drinking. The case had been a bitch (though, honestly, when _hadn't_ the case been a bitch?). The rest of the team had retired to their various hotel rooms, and the two of them were left in the bar alone. The place was nearly empty; last call had come and gone.

"Come on," he had said, throwing a sloppy arm across her shoulders. "Let me walk you to your room." He had staggered then, he remembered, because it made her giggle. She never giggled; laughed, of course, but giggled? That had been something altogether new. He had stared at her through drink-hazed eyes. "You just giggled."

"Did not," she'd denied, swaying a little. "I was just thinking...you can barely stand up straight. How are you going to walk me to my room?" She had been enunciating very carefully, testing each word before letting it go.

"_I_ am fine. _You_ are drunk. Therefore, I will be a gentleman and escort you to your room. That bartender is giving us a funny look, so let's go."

She had conceded his point, and they'd made their uneven way to the elevator. He remembered that elevator ride. It was seared into his brain like a brand. They had been standing together staring up at the escalating numbers when she turned her head and kissed him softly, sensuously, on the neck, just below the corner of his jaw. The silky wetness of her tongue against his skin had sent a jolt straight through him.

Unfortunately his memories grew hazy after that, but he did recall waking up the next morning lying sideways across her bed with a pounding head. They had both been naked. He had had several bite marks on his chest. Hhmm.

The second time it happened, they weren't drunk. They were in a bar again, sure, but he'd been sipping club soda, and she'd only had one beer. They were alone again. She had brought it up, her voice deceptively casual as she said, "Hey, look at the date."

"The date?"

She had stared at him, the look on her face something between hope and hurt, expectation and resignation. "January eighth."

His face had clouded, cleared. "Oh. January eighth. Seattle."

"Seattle. One year ago tonight."

"Um. You know. I was pretty drunk..."

The smile had brightened her face, subtracted care. "Me too."

"I'm not drunk tonight."

"Me neither."

The silence had been profound, and he remembered wondering which one of them would suggest it first...

"Your room or mine?" she'd asked, her expression going wicked.

His memories of that night were crystal clear.

The third time needed none of the coy dancing the second time had. It was January eighth; they were once again out of town on a case, and this time he just showed up at her door. She had smiled at him; opened the door wider to let him in.

His memories of _that_ night still made him blush.

Now it was closing in on their fourth January eighth. He knew he should stay away from her. He knew he wouldn't. She was like an addiction, a heady drug he couldn't get enough of. The more logical part of his mind wondered how long they could go on like this: they worked together, and the others were bound to notice something eventually. The repercussions for their careers were potentially disastrous.

The other, larger part of his mind didn't give a damn.

He decided, for once, to follow his instincts rather than his logic. One night was worth the risk. _She_ was worth the risk. He stared at the calendar, willing the days to pass more quickly, and at last January 8, 2010 dawned, a lovely sprinkle of snow ushering in the sun reborn.

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_So who is it? You'll have to wait and find out, but I'd love to hear your guesses. :D_

_Thanks for reading!  
_


	2. Into the Storm

**a/n:** Hhhmm...since no one guessed correctly, I hope I don't have a bunch of disappointed readers out there. :) Thank you so much for all the wonderful reviews! Enjoy this chapter, and keep them coming...even if you are disappointed. :D

Thanks to **ArwenLalaith** for the kind beta'ing!

Oh, um...so this would be the chapter that has the more racy bits. Like I said, nothing too graphic, but it's not for the kiddos, either.

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**Chapter 2: Into the Storm**

**Then they set out ... shuffling through the ash, each the other's world entire.**  
-Cormac McCarthy, _The Road_

"Reid, man, you're drivin' me nuts. Would you cut that out?!" Derek Morgan demanded, his handsome face scrunching in a scowl. Spencer Reid had been humming all day - _humming_! - and Morgan was on the verge of wringing his neck in flagrant disregard of his policy to not pick on skinny kids with a limp.

The young doctor blushed, fidgeted. "Um, right. Sorry, Morgan. I just...sorry," he stammered, ducking his head to hide a little grin.

"Hey, what's today? I think this report was dated wrong," Jennifer "J.J." Jareau asked as she frowned down at the folder in her hands.

"January eighth," Reid and Emily Prentiss replied simultaneously. Reid's cheeks colored again as he suddenly looked _very_ absorbed in the map he d been studying. Prentiss shifted in her chair a little, avoiding everyone's gaze, and returned her attention to the laptop in front of her.

Morgan and J.J. exchanged puzzled looks. "What are you two, the Bobbseys?" J.J. said, lips curving.

"Wow. A Bobbsey twins reference. You don't look _that_ old, J.J.," Prentiss quipped.

"Actually, though the _Bobbsey Twins_ series had its final volume in 1979, its popularity as a cultural touchstone endured," Reid piped up. "J.J.'s reference, while perhaps lost on a young teenager or a child, is perfectly appropriate for her age."

J.J. nodded wryly. "Thanks, Spence. I think."

"Seriously? The year the last _Bobbsey Twins_ book was published? Is there anything you _don't_ know?" Prentiss asked rhetorically.

He pondered a few moments. "The air-speed velocity of an unladen swallow?"

"Well, it does depend on whether it's an African or European swallow," she responded, a smile brightening her face. Their eyes met, held, and Morgan glanced over at J.J., brows raised.

Before either agent could comment further on their colleagues' odd behavior, Morgan's phone rang. He frowned down at the caller ID display before flipping it open. "Morgan. How can I help you, ma'am?" _Strauss_, he mouthed to the others, grimacing in annoyance. He listened carefully, his face clouding as she spoke. "Yes, ma'am. Are you sure?...Of course, immediately...Yes, ma'am...Yes, ma'am. As soon as possible. Thank you, ma'am." He snapped the phone closed and glared at it.

"What's up?" J.J. asked.

"We've been recalled to Quantico ASAP. Apparently there's a spree killer targeting shopping malls. Three people, including a kid, are dead already."

"The secondary team can't take care of it?" Prentiss asked.

"Apparently not. The press is all over it, and they're already asking why the FBI's top people aren't there. She wants us back _yesterday_."

Reid was staring out the window, his deep-set hazel eyes wide. "Um, guys? I don't think that's going to happen. Look."

The team joined him, their faces wearing identical looks of astonishment. Outside the Cedar Trail, Colorado sheriff's office, the pretty little snow shower that had greeted them that morning had turned into a maelstrom of driving white. "White out conditions. No planes are leaving any time soon," J.J. confirmed as she checked the airport status on her BlackBerry. "Not to mention the roads between here and the airport are probably nasty. I don't think we're going anywhere, guys."

"Shit. Strauss is gonna _maim_ me."

"Nah," Prentiss disagreed blithely, "she'll go after Mother Nature first. That gives you time to run away."

"Bravely, I hope," Reid offered.

Prentiss bit her lip to stifle a laugh; Morgan shook his head in disgust; J.J. just raised a contemplative brow. "I'll call Hotch and Rossi to let them know to meet us at the hotel; judging by the look of that weather, I think we should pack it in for the day."

"I'll call Strauss," Morgan said reluctantly. "Prentiss, Reid, you two go on ahead. Get the sheriff to drive you; he has snow chains on his tires. J.J. and I will get him when he gets back."

The two agents studiously avoided looking at each other as they gathered their things and buttoned their coats. Prentiss offered Reid his cane, glad he'd brought it "just in case:" this situation seemed like a definite "in case," as the sidewalk was sure to be slick with ice. He smiled and mumbled his thanks, and they set off to find the sheriff.

* * *

Later, Reid ghosted around his empty hotel room. The snow outside hadn't let up, and the sheriff said it might be twenty-four hours or more before the roads between Cedar Trail and the airport were cleared. Sometimes Reid really hated small towns. One good thing: since the hotel lacked any sort of restaurant, the sheriff's wife had made them all dinner. Reid's plate, wiped clean of fantastic meatloaf, mashed potatoes, and green beans, seemed to mock him from the nightstand.

Dinner had been a distraction, but he'd eaten too fast. Now he had a lot of time on his hands, and none of his usual diversions were holding his attention. He'd started and discarded three books. He'd gone over the case file ad nauseam. He'd tried to watch TV, but the cable was out and the local channels were just covering the weather (guess what? Snow. An ass load of snow).

He sighed. Paced. Splashed cold water on his face. Paced some more.

He was on the verge of giving in when there was a knock on the door. He checked the peephole; grinned. Prentiss held up a bottle and two plastic hotel-issue cups as he opened the door.

"I brought Diet Coke," she said, her face lit in a wry grin.

"Diet Coke," he replied, a smile twisting his mouth, "the drink of champions. You'd better come in; I'm thirsty." He stepped aside to let her in, and as she brushed past him he caught a whiff of her subtle, intriguing perfume. The scent made him ache. He shut the door behind her, set the locks. Cleared his throat before turning to face her. "I was about to come to you," he admitted.

She smiled and poured them each two fingers of soda. Passed him a cup. "To the eighth," she said, raising her drink in salute.

He tapped his plastic chalice against hers before knocking the drink back. The bubbles fizzed all the way down, and he coughed a little.

"Light weight," she teased gently.

His lips curved in acknowledgement, but the expression slowly faded as he watched her. "Emily—"

"No, Spencer," she murmured, stepping close. "No words. Not now."

His hands, those beautiful, sensitive, long-fingered hands, came up to cup her face. She smiled at him, and if he noticed the way her mouth trembled, he didn't say so. He complied with her wishes and simply kissed her, his lips both firm and soft against hers, his touch both gentle and demanding. He was a study of contradictions, and she found that nearly irresistible. His fingers ran up through her glossy hair as the kiss deepened, and he kneaded the back of her neck with one hand as the other slid down to unbutton her blouse.

She nipped lightly at his lower lip, and a heartbeat later all hesitation was forgotten. Buttons were dealt with hastily, mouths tasted hungrily, clothing flew like a whirlwind, and hands stroked already sweat-slicked skin with insistent need. He kissed the warm porcelain swell of her breast above black lace; she ran teasing fingers up and down his flat belly. She breathed out a moan; his muscles tightened.

They were gasping, laughing, whispering small exclamations of pleasure as they rediscovered each other's bodies, explored new features. He delighted in the softness of her skin; she reveled in the feel of his hands. She pressed her lips tenderly against the scar on his thigh, tracing it with her tongue in a way that made him shudder.

They came together joyfully, all thoughts of the world outside the small, bare room forgotten. The case disappeared; the team; the storm. For a short time, each was the other's world entire.

* * *

_Though Hotch and Prentiss are one of my favorite pairs, I decided to go a different way with this one. Even in an AU I can't really see Hotch going for a one night stand sort of thing, and due to his marriage (unless I left that out, I suppose) this would only be their second or maybe third year; I felt the situation needed more build than that. Because it is an AU, and because I like the idea of Reid and Prentiss, I decided to go the less conventional route this time. :)_

_Let me know what you think, generous readers.  
_


	3. Not Yet Near Day

**a/n:** I believe I stated in my first author's note for this story that I had it completely written; that's no longer true. Oh well, I think it's better for it...

Thank you so much for the reviews, and I hope you'll stick with it even if this pairing might not be the one you would choose. :)

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**Chapter 3: Not Yet Near Day**

**Wilt thou be gone? it is not yet near day:  
It was the nightingale, and not the lark,  
That pierced the fearful hollow of thine ear;  
Nightly she sings on yon pomegranate-tree:  
Believe me, love, it was the nightingale.**  
-William Shakespeare, _Romeo and Juliet_ 3.5.1-5

Later she slept, but he lay awake watching her. He'd observed her sleeping on the plane before; her mouth had a tendency to pucker; a crease formed between her fine dark brows. Tonight, though, her face was smooth. Serene. He ran his fingertips down her cheek, soft as a butterfly's wing, and she stirred ever so slightly. He hastily snatched his hand back, not wanting to disturb such obviously peaceful slumber.

She turned toward him; murmured something in her sleep. He lowered his head to better hear. "Spencer," she breathed softly, the word thickened by sleep but nonetheless intelligible. He leaned back, blinking in surprise, but trying not to read too much into it. It stood to reason she'd say his name; she was in his bed, after all...so to speak...

He wondered what it would be like to have Emily in his _actual_ bed, the one in his untidy, hodgepodge apartment. He wondered how she would react to his mess; the books strewn every which way; the seemingly random art selections adorning the walls; the odd paint scheme. (Personal side note: he had never considered his paint scheme odd. It seemed perfectly rational to him at the time, but Morgan had pointed out once that he was most likely colorblind if he persisted with that belief. He persisted. And he _was_ colorblind; it was why he stuck mostly to neutrals with his clothing choices.)

Anyway.

He had a feeling, based on no logic he knew of, that she would be ok with it all. She'd never laughed at his mismatched socks. She'd never teased him about his sweater vests, or his tendency to wear his watch outside his sleeve, or his myriad other peccadilloes. She was...

She was his colleague. Even if there weren't rules against fraternizing with fellow agents, it simply wasn't a good idea. They had kept these occasions to an annual event, and in between January eighths they acted like it was just another day on the calendar, a day that meant nothing to either of them.

But this was their fourth eighth. Each ninth it grew increasingly harder to say goodbye to her, to kiss her and let her go, to return to the way things had to be. A part of him longed to wake her, ask her if she felt the same, ask her to stay for the ninth, the tenth, the eleventh...ad infinitum.

Again she stirred in her sleep. A long-fingered hand tumbled onto his chest. The sheet slid down her body, exposing more of her moon-pale skin to shine in the strange, shifting light glowing from the window. He loved this woman's contradictions: an almost freakish ability to compartmentalize and an incredibly soft heart; stiff-backed pride and sweet vulnerability; wry, irreverent humor and deeply ingrained sense of propriety; midnight hair against alabaster skin; soft curves masking disciplined strength.

_Face it, Spencer_, he told himself sternly, _she's way out of your league. You're no Derek Morgan or Aaron Hotchner. You're a blinker._

Sighing softly, regretfully, he wiggled down into the bed next to her warmth. He could never say these things to her; he had to be content with one night a year. It was, truly, better than nothing.

* * *

He was a heavy sleeper. She adored that about him. In so many ways he was really just a big kid. In other ways...in other ways, she thought with a little shiver, he was all man. Recently he'd let his hair grow out into a mess of curls. She liked tangling her fingers in the wild mane; sometimes the urge was almost irresistible. He'd also started dressing a bit better. His clothes no longer hung off of him; he'd begun incorporating more patterns and colors into his wardrobe (dangerous, she thought, considering his colorblindness; a salesperson at the store must've helped him). When their eyes met across the conference room table, he no longer immediately looked away like a guilty schoolboy caught peeking.

Another thing she'd noticed, though she'd tried _very_ hard not to, was how he'd filled out just in the last year. He no longer looked like an awkward boy, or a Radio Shack employee who'd accidentally wandered in off the street. He still had moments of awkwardness - especially on the crutches - but overall he carried himself with a new confidence. Local cops had stopped calling him "kid." He was nearly thirty, and he was finally beginning to look his age.

He still wore mismatched socks, though, she reflected with a little grin.

She liked the new-and-improved Spencer Reid, but she knew this older, more mature Reid was far more dangerous to her than the uncertain, shy kid from previous January eighths. She had a strange feeling that this Reid was going to be far more difficult to forget about come January ninth.

Not, she chided herself, that she had forgotten him before. Well, except maybe the first time, but that didn't really count. The last two years she'd remembered everything, perfectly, and she'd practically counted down the days until the calendar flipped to that one special date. They'd never really spoken of it; they'd never _planned_ it; just after the first time, she'd wanted a memory, she supposed. Then after the second time, it seemed like they actually had a sort of anniversary, so when he'd knocked on her door the third January eighth (face scrunched; thin hands buried in pockets; expression tentative and hopeful), she'd let him in without hesitation.

This time she'd come to him. She'd been the one knocking without bothering with an excuse or pretense. They both knew why she'd come; neither had wanted to waste time pretending. They only had one night, after all...one night to last them the next three hundred sixty-four. She sighed; wound a light brown curl around her finger. It was still early, barely past one. With the storm no one would be up and about tomorrow until late.

Grinning wickedly, his hair still wrapped around her finger, she leaned forward to nibble lightly on his jaw. She loved the sharp angle of it, the way it cut at the corners before blending into his long neck. She also loved how sensitive his skin was there. He stirred, a quiet breath passing through his lips, and after a moment his hazel eyes fluttered open.

His head turned. He took in her expression; her hand in his hair; with a sleepy little smile he reached for her, thankful winter nights were so very, very long.

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_I wanted to address the age difference between the two, and also what might have brought (and be keeping) them together. I hope I've done that a little bit here. :)_

_Please let me know how you feel with a review, fine readers. :)  
_


	4. A Taste of Something Fine

**a/n:** Ahem. Well. Some of you may recognize this chapter; you might've read it before. How is that possible, you ask? Well, silly me, somehow I replaced chapter 3 with this one at some point. Thanks to **chiroho** for pointing out my mistake! If you find that you _have_ read it, go back and read chapter 3. :)

Thank you, as always, for the all the wonderful reviews for last chapter. :)

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**Chapter 4: A Taste of Something Fine**

**The world outside is tugging like a beggar at my sleeve;  
Now that's much too old a story to believe.  
And you know it's taken its share of me  
Even though you take such good care of me…  
The dreams are rolling down across the places in my mind,  
And I've just had a taste of something fine.**  
-Jackson Browne, "Something Fine"

A pounding on the door woke them both from sound sleep. Irritated, he checked the watch on his nightstand: nearly noon. Hhmm. Well, they hadn't really slept much after Emily woke him...the scene outside the window had been turning from black to gray before they finally drifted off, her dark head pressed against his narrow chest, his skinny arms wrapped around her soft body.

He felt her tense next to him. "Oh shit," she muttered sleepily, "I should've been gone hours ago."

"It's ok, he replied softly. "I'd recognize that banging anywhere; it's just Morgan. Go hide in the bathroom. I'll get rid of him."

She nodded and began gathering her clothes before disappearing into the bathroom, closing the door securely behind her. Reid pulled on a pair of pants and hurried to answer as Morgan began pounding again.

Momentarily taken aback by his friend's harried appearance, Morgan simply blinked at him a moment. Then, with a start, as though coming back to himself, he said, "Kid, there you are. No one's seen you all morning; we were worried you might've stumbled out into the storm or something."

His brow scrunched skeptically. "Right. Because everyone knows there's nothing I like more than a long ramble in white out conditions. Especially since becoming gimp boy."

Morgan laughed; smacked the younger man heartily on the shoulder. "Come on, pretty boy, quit your bitchin'. Let's go get some food."

Reid rubbed his flat stomach thoughtfully, slowly shaking his head. "I'm not really hungry, actually. I had some Doritos about three..."

"Doritos? Kid, please."

Just then there was a muffled thump from the bathroom. Morgan's expressive brows rose. "You got a rat problem?"

Reid pulled the door more tightly around him. "Um, no..." His face twisted, mouth quirked. "I, um...I sort of have company?"

Morgan took a step back, expression changing to a strange mix of curiosity and pride. "How'd you manage to meet a girl out here? It's all Death Storm 2010 outside."

"Um." He crossed an arm over his chest; lowered his head. "I guess I wasn't the only one hungry at three AM..."

Morgan barked out a laugh; gave Reid another smack on the back, this one hard enough to make him stagger. "Good for you, playa! I've never picked up a girl at a vending machine before. I'll leave you to it, then. Have fun!" He winked, a huge grin splitting his face, and sauntered away

Reid cringed, knowing he would never hear the end of this, and hastily shut the door. As soon as Morgan's footsteps faded, he gave the bathroom door a gentle tap. It opened to a flush-faced Emily Prentiss clad only in bra and panties. "Oh my God, that was close!" she gasped. "I almost fell over putting on my underwear. I decided after that it was safer to stay undressed."

"I told you I'd get rid of him, though I'm going to regret it later," he said with a little wince as he sank down onto the edge of the bed. "He thinks I picked someone up at the vending machine last night." His nose wrinkled. "Would a woman really let herself be picked up over Doritos?"

She grinned, perched next to him. "Maybe. Depends on the woman. Depends on the guy."

A silence fell, and he reached out to take her hand. Their fingers twined together; palms pressed close. Both pairs of eyes, ochre and hazel, were trained on the view out the window. It had stopped snowing; the landscape resembled a dreamy, pristine winter wonderland. "What if he goes to my room next?" she whispered into the quiet.

He squeezed her hand. "Tell him you met someone at the ice machine. Apparently in Cedar Trail, machines that dispense sustenance are a major turn-on."

Her face was stricken as she turned toward him. "Spencer, if Hotch were to find out—"

"Emily," he said softly, reasonably, "after everything Hotch has been through in the last several months, do you honestly think he would begrudge us one night? He of all people should understand the importance of...of...comfort, I guess, in difficult times."

"Comfort?" she asked, brows rising. "Is that what this is?"

He released her hand and rose; paced to the window and back again. She watched him, her face impassive, and waited for his answer. "I don't know what this is," he finally admitted.

It was both more and less than she'd hoped for. She looked down; fought to dredge up a smile; raised her head again to meet his intense gaze. "Of course," she said in a deceptively light tone. "We don't let it affect our work, so he really can't say much of anything, can he? It's only once a year." She stood and hurried back to the bathroom. "I should get dressed; it's only a matter of time before they start looking for me, too."

He stared after her as the bathroom door slammed, a puzzled frown contorting his features. What had he done wrong? She was the one who kept things so...one night only. Wasn't she? He folded his long frame into the small hotel chair and pondered. They'd never discussed it; it had simply been a silent understanding between them: one night a year, pure professionalism the other three hundred sixty-four.

But maybe...what if...what if she were thinking thoughts similar to his own? What if she wanted more than just one night? What if she were imagining him in her bed just as he had imagined her in his? He remembered the expression on her face last night just before he'd kissed her; the way her smile wavered; the curious brightness in her midnight eyes. _Spencer Reid_, he thought bitterly, _you are a monumental fool_.

He sat back in the chair, stunned. His hazel eyes flicked to the closed bathroom door. He'd wasted the past year, maybe even the past _two_ years, but he was done with that now. Rising, body tensed with determination, he strode to the door and...paused.

What about the team? He cared deeply for Emily; they had an amazing time together; but what would happen to the dynamics of the small, atypical family they'd all built? Morgan wouldn't fire them, he knew, but...what if things went wrong? Would they still be able to keep work and their personal lives separate?

Family was precious to him. Rare. Invaluable. Emily was a wonderful, amazing, once-in-a-lifetime woman, but was what they had really applicable to life outside their annual hotel rooms? His face scrunched; his jaw worked.

Reaching out a hand, he rapped sharply on the door. "Emily," he called through the panel, "I think we need to talk."

**...**

She slammed the bathroom door behind her a little harder than strictly necessary and hurried to the vanity. She stared at her face in the mirror - tousled hair, kiss-swollen lips, pale skin, wild dark eyes. The sob came abruptly, and she furiously bit down on the heel of her hand to stifle it.

What a monumental fool she'd been! Of course he wasn't willing to risk his career for her; of course it was just a casual, one-night-a-year arrangement to him. His job was everything to him; he _was_ the job.

But if she were being completely honest, was she willing to risk _her_ career for _him_? She thought about the ten years she'd spent on desk duty, how hard she'd worked to distance herself from her mother's name, how much she d wanted this BAU assignment. Was Spencer Reid really worth giving all that up?

Strangely, she thought he was. First of all, she seriously doubted Hotch (or Morgan) would actually fire either one of them. Secondly...she ran a thoughtful fingertip over her tender mouth; remembered the feel of his hands on her, the steady sound of his heartbeat beneath her ear, the way his whole face transformed when he smiled. She wasn't sure what her "secondly" was. She loved her job; she cared for Spencer; which one would be easier to live without? She could find another job…

Her brow furrowed. She tapped a finger against her mouth. Another job, yes, but another…family? It sounded so Hallmark moment to say that about the team, but it was undeniably true. She remembered when Morgan was arrested in Chicago; when Reid was being held by Henkel; when Garcia was shot; when Hotch was blown up; when she was beaten in Colorado; J.J. going into labor at work. Foyet, Haley, Jack. Hotch. Morgan, J.J., Garcia. Hotch.

She splashed some water on her face. Glared balefully at her reflection. She was reaching for the door handle when there was a sharp knock.

"Emily," Spencer said through the door, "I think we need to talk."

* * *

_Originally, in a slightly altered form, this was the last chapter. No longer!! So brace yourselves and proceed to chapter 5...when I publish it..._

_Thank you for taking the time to review! It means the world. :)  
_


	5. Aftermath

**a/n:** I did a tiny rewrite to chapter 4, mostly just at the end, but it's not necessary to go back and read that before proceeding.

A special thanks to **chiroho **and** Meenee126** for giving me a different perspective!

I had a combination of ten (10) Story Alert and Favorite Story adds for chapter 4, and no reviews to go with them! While I love knowing you care enough about the story to follow it, I'd love to know why! :D For those of you who did review, thank you so much. :)

* * *

**Chapter 5: Aftermath**

**I am the babe who sleeps through the blast;  
I am the sudden and quite unexpected twist;  
I am your one true love who sleeps with someone else;  
I am your nemesis.  
Baby, I'm life:  
Sweet life itself.**  
-David Gray, "Nemesis"

When Derek Morgan joined the rest of his team in the hotel's small lobby, the group of highly observant, abnormally intelligent men and women (woman: Prentiss was absent) couldn't help but notice the strange look on his handsome face. His brows were drawn together over chocolate eyes, and his jaw was tight.

"What's wrong?" J.J. asked. "Where are Reid and Prentiss?"

He let out a strange, wheezing little chuckle. "Funny you should ask that…"

"No one's gotten kidnapped again, have they?" Rossi asked with a lift of his uneven brows.

"Nooo, I don't think so."

"Spit it out, Morgan," Hotch ordered testily.

Morgan ran a hand over the smooth dome of his skull and considered his next words carefully. "I went by the kid's room first; he had company," he told them. "He said he met someone at the vending machine last night."

J.J.'s face transformed into a mask of surprise…accompanied by a trickle of suspicion. "And Emily?" she asked carefully.

"She didn't answer her door at all," Morgan confirmed.

Rossi blinked. "Wait. Are you implying…Prentiss and _Reid_?" he demanded, astounded.

Hotch was ominously silent.

"They were acting very strange yesterday," J.J. said. "They wouldn't really look at each other."

"Except when Reid made those vague little jokes," Morgan commented. "Then they were all, 'oh, your obscure little references are _so funny_!'"

"Vague and obscure? Morgan, they were Monty Python references."

"Ohh," Rossi said, grinning, "I love Monty Python. I wish I'd been there."

"This isn't funny, Dave," Hotch bit out at last. "If what Morgan suspects is true, we're talking about a serious breach of FBI protocol here."

"Ok, G-man, relax. Maybe we should talk to them before we jump to any conclusions?" the older agent suggested reasonably.

"I'll go, um, find Emily," J.J said, reaching for her phone and stepping away from the group.

"I should talk to Reid," Morgan said.

"You're the acting Unit Chief, Morgan," Hotch reminded him. "It will be your responsibility to decide how to handle this situation officially."

"If there even is a situation to handle," Rossi said. "It isn't outside the realm of possibility that Reid just got lucky last night. He's not unattractive, and his magic act worked on that girl in Atlanta."

Hotch offered his friend and colleague a stony glare before striding from the room. Morgan and Rossi watched him go, and the older man let out a little whistle. "Poor kid. Nothing like finding out the girl of your dreams is dreaming about someone else."

Morgan's face scrunched. Rossi's ideas came out of left field sometimes. "Right," he said, humoring him. "I'm gonna go call Reid."

* * *

She found him in the small, little-used space the hotel laughingly called a "conference room." There was only a folding table and a few chairs, but it had a really great view of the sprawling countryside with the Rockies in the distance. His expression was pained, and she approached him cautiously. She wasn't completely sure why she'd sought him out, except J.J. had given her the heads up that, of all of them, Hotch had taken the news about her and Reid the strongest.

She stopped in front of him and held her breath, waiting for him to speak first. "Prentiss," he greeted her coolly.

"Sir," she replied in a similar tone.

His dark eyes searched her face for several long heartbeats. He seemed at a loss, a relatively new condition for him. "I'm just…taken aback," he decided at last. "I don't understand what…" He trailed off and turned away, shaking his head, hands on his hips.

She felt…shocked was too strong a word, but certainly surprised. Hotch rarely reacted this strongly to anything (except, maybe, that time Jordan lied to the victim's family and he nearly burst a vein), but now he looked positively distraught. She cleared her throat. "It just happened; it's not like we planned it." Sort of true, sort of not.

He turned back, his mouth set in a grim, hard line. "But why _Spencer_? He's…he's…"

"He's what?" she asked, anger flaring. "He's young? He's weird? He's not _you_? Is that your real problem here, Hotch? You thought if I were going to sleep with anyone on this team, it would be you?"

He blinked. "I never said—"

"No, that's just it. You never said _anything_! You and Haley were divorced nearly three years, and you never said or did anything. You can't…it's not fair…" She shook her head in wordless frustration; ruffled her bangs with a huff of breath.

"Emily," he began hesitantly, "you know I respect you. I was hard on you when you first joined the team, but over time I came to appreciate your abilities as a profiler and an agent. Any sort of…relationship…outside of that is completely inappropriate, especially given my former position as Unit Chief."

She fidgeted, feeling foolish. "See, that's just it. I wasn't looking for something so…_serious_…but you've only got two speeds: distant, wary respect or full-on, committed relationship."

He cleared his throat. Adjusted his cuffs. "That's not true," he said at last.

She rolled her eyes. "Please. You were married to your high school sweetheart for twenty years."

He winced, and she wished she could quit bringing Haley into the conversation. His late wife's memory was obviously still painful to him; as well it should be; and Emily felt like she was punishing him. "I'm sorry, Aaron," she murmured. "I never meant—"

"There are a great many things none of us ever _meant_, Emily," he replied quietly.

"What is this really about?" she asked him, setting her jaw and crossing her arms over her chest. "Are you going to give him this same lecture? Honestly, Hotch, is this because it was him, or because it was me?"

"He's been on my team longer, but you're…" Tricky area here. "Your judgment should be better," he finally decided.

"I'm old enough to know better, you mean?"

"I just expected more from you."

She stepped back, stunned. "Don't you think you're overreacting a little bit?"

He sighed. Frowned. Refused to meet her angry gaze. "I just don't want your career jeopardized. You're too good at what you do; you're too important to this team."

"I can take care of myself, thanks." She turned away, fury etched in the tense line of her back. "So what's going to happen now?" she asked.

"That's up to Morgan," he said, looking past her out the window. "He's Unit Chief now."

"That's not…I meant…" She trailed off, giving up. Finally, "What would you do in his place?" she asked as she turned back.

He turned his piercing dark gaze onto her grim face. Barely, he relented. "So far this…whatever it is…between you and Reid hasn't affected your ability to do your jobs. As long as nothing changed in that regard, I would simply warn you to be careful."

Her eyes slid away from his. She tried to clear the lump from her suddenly thick throat. "I…are we…" She shook her head impatiently. "Even though I think you're being ridiculous…I need to know, Aaron: are we still ok?"

He rubbed his forehead with a weary hand. Maybe she was right: maybe he _was_ overreacting. He told her he respected her, and he'd meant it, so why was he treating her now like she'd committed some heinous crime? Why was seeking a bit of comfort in their bleak, often bitter world so terrible? "You're an adult, Emily," he said at last. "So is Reid, though we often forget or overlook that. This job makes inhuman demands on all of us; maybe you and J.J. more than anyone since so many of the victims we see resemble the two of you so closely. J.J. found happiness in a way none of us expected. Perhaps, as unorthodox as it may be, you've found yours."

She took a breath; held it; opened her mouth to reply.

"I do want you to be happy, Prentiss," he assured her gently.

"Thank you, sir," she whispered. They were slowly, hesitantly, melting back into their accustomed rolls: he had switched from "Emily" back to the more standard "Prentiss;" she reverted to the much-safer "sir." Before the old formality could completely reassert itself, she reached out to lay a careful hand on his arm. "Maybe in another life, my happiness is you."

He glanced, startled, down at her long fingers against his sleeve, then back up into her ochre eyes. He considered a moment before some of the more deeply furrowed lines smoothed and his face eased into a wavering, uncertain little smile. "That's a strangely comforting thought," he agreed.

She gave his arm a squeeze, and her smile was a bright, lingering after-effect across his vision as she turned to walk away. He watched her go, thinking wistfully of what might have been. Twenty years was a long time, but it wasn't a lifetime. Right now he had to concentrate on Jack, on being the best father he could to his scared, confused little boy, but maybe it was also time to start healing the rents in his own heart.

* * *

_Speaking of things coming out of left field..._

_I don't want it implied that Prentiss is wishing she could jump out of Reid's bed and into Hotch's. That isn't what's happening here at all; Hotch is busy raising Jack and still reeling from Haley's death; Emily really does care for Reid and isn't just using him as a...sort of...rebound, so this chapter isn't for the purpose of establishing a "could have been" relationship for Em or for Hotch. It's more for exploring some personal issues they both might have. __Maybe y'all got all of that just from the reading, but maybe not. :)_

_For those of you who were expecting the "conversation" that was semi-promised at the end of the last chapter, I'm sorry. The story originally ended with Spencer's line about needing to talk, and I never intended (or wanted) to write their conversation. I figure J.J. helped get me out of it by calling Emily to tell her Hotch was on the warpath. :)  
_

_Ok, I'm done rambling. Reviews are lovely. :)_

_PS: Crap. Now I have to write a chapter 6...  
_


	6. Uncharted Waters

**a/n:** Whew, sorry it's taken me so long to get this out! My six day work week really kicked my ass. :/

As far as I know, this is the last chapter of Four Eighths. If I write anymore on it, it'll be as a sequel, either a multi-chapter or one-shot, depending on my muse. :)

Thanks for all the reviews, and I'd love to read more. :D

* * *

**Chapter 6: Uncharted Waters  
**

**What with all my expectations long abandoned,  
And my solitary nature notwithstanding,  
You're the one who pulled me out of that crash landing,  
My stunning mystery companion.**  
-Jackson Browne, "My Stunning Mystery Companion"

"Kid, I know you're in there. There's no place else to go. Just let me in," Derek Morgan demanded through Spencer Reid's hotel room door. He'd been knocking a solid ten minutes, but he had no illusions about Reid's capacity to ignore someone: he could be stuck out here all day.

He was on the verge of giving up (or maybe going outside and ripping his shirt open, a la Marlon Brando in _A Streetcar Named Desire_, as he screamed Reid's name…) when the door swung open. "You're bothering the whole hotel, Morgan. I was in the shower," Reid snapped.

The bigger man stepped into the room and shut the door behind him. "Where's Prentiss?" he asked, glancing around warily.

Reid shot him a baleful look. "She left when she got J.J.'s call. Are you here to fire me?"

"Jesus, Reid, that never crossed my mind," he admitted, slumping down into the uncomfortable chair that had been witness to Reid's earlier epiphany.

The young man sighed; rubbed a towel over his wet hair just to keep his hands busy. "I'm sorry I lied to you," he said at last.

Morgan spread his hands in a semi-shrug. "Understandable, given the circumstances. Would you have lied if I weren't acting Unit Chief?"

His brows drew together; the worry line appeared between them. "I honestly don't know. It wasn't just my secret to tell."

He absorbed this in silence. Shifted in an attempt to get comfortable. Studied his young friend with careful, worried eyes. "So you and Prentiss…is it serious?"

Reid cleared his throat. Gingerly perched on the corner of the bed. "I…it's…um, it's really complicated," he finally decided.

Morgan's mouth quirked appreciatively. "You can say that again. I thought Hotch was gonna have an aneurysm."

He rubbed his fine-boned face with both hands. "They're close, Hotch and Emily," he said through his fingers.

"Yeah," Morgan agreed, "but not 'confide all your secrets' close. That's more Garcia's area; she's gonna hit the ceiling when she finds out."

The hands fell to his lap. "And you? How are you reacting?"

He sighed. Jogged the foot he had propped on one knee in agitation. "I wish you would've told me, man."

"There wasn't much to tell, Morgan. It was just…a port in the storm, I think. For both of us."

"So what changed?" he asked, pinning his friend with a dark-eyed, perceptive stare.

Reid shrugged a shoulder. "I don't know."

"But something did."

"Yeah," he agreed softly, "something did." He drew a deep breath. "It's funny. We all relate in different ways, on different levels, and we're all…close…but I feel like Emily…_gets_ me. I don't know how to explain."

"There's a connection. Like Garcia and I."

He glanced over sharply. "But I thought you and Garcia—"

"We're not lovers, never have been. But to say we're 'just friends' is to over simplify. I told her once she was my God-given solace, and I meant it. I still do," he explained in a mild voice.

"Look, kid," he continued after a moment's pause, "if you and Em think you can make each other happy in this dirty, fucked up world, then go for it. I'm not gonna run to Strauss or make your lives any harder. I just want you to be prepared for how tough it's gonna be. Can you handle it?"

His face scrunched as he considered his answer. "We all listened to Haley die," he said. Morgan knew it wasn't a change of subject, so he sat, silent, and waited for the point. "Foyet killed her because Hotch loved her, and he made him listen because he was a monster."

"There are a lot of monsters out there, Reid," Morgan cautioned gently.

"_Here there be monsters_…" he whispered speculatively.

"What?" the other man asked with a frown.

The young man raised his gaze to meet his friend's concerned eyes. "Old maps. In unexplored areas they had fantastic drawings of sea serpents and dragons with the inscription 'Here there be monsters,'" he explained. "It kept people away from unexplored waters for a long time."

Morgan raised an appreciative brow; huffed out a little chuckle. "Until someone had the balls to go see for himself."

"There are always going to be monsters, Morgan," he said. "Our choice isn't whether or not to stick close to home so we can avoid them; our choice is the crew we take with us when we go face them."

He smiled, a flash of white teeth in a dusky face. "Alright, pretty boy; go get your woman." His expression sobered, and he dropped both feet to the floor; leaned forward in the small chair. "Just be careful, Reid. I mean it."

His mouth twisted. "I'm always careful, Morgan; isn't that sort of the problem?"

* * *

"Emily? Hey, Em, it's me. Listen, I brought food…are you…hey, are you hungry?" Reid called through her door. Silence was his only answer, but he knew from J.J. that she was in there. "I can just leave it here if you want…?"

The door swung open, and she stepped back to let him pass. One glimpse at her face told him she'd been crying. Feeling awkward, he fumbled to find a place for the large bag of sandwiches and chips, the bottle of Diet Coke he'd retrieved from his room. "Are you…" He trailed off, at a loss, and mutely offered her his pocket handkerchief.

She took it with a watery smile. "Trust you to carry monogrammed handkerchiefs," she commented, sniffling and dabbing her eyes.

He shrugged, lips quirking. "My mom sends me a box every Christmas. I think it's her small way of saving the planet."

She read the initials, frowning. "SGR. What's your middle name?"

"Geoffrey," he told her, "after Geoffrey Chaucer."

"Of course. Um, so, food. What'd you bring?"

His forehead wrinkled as his brows drew together over worried hazel eyes. Deciding she'd get to it her own way, he let her change the subject. "The sheriff's wife sent us sandwiches," he said, unpacking the bag. "I got you tuna salad on rye and turkey and Swiss on wheat. I wasn't sure what you'd be in the mood for. Of course I brought these, too." He held up a package of barbecue potato chips with a triumphant little smile: they were one of her favorite guilty pleasures.

"Perfect. What are you having?" she asked as she took the snack from him and inspected the sandwiches.

"Um. Roast beef and provolone on wheat."

Her dark eyes grew wide. "Roast beef? Really?"

He'd unwrapped the sandwich and was about to take a bite, but the look she was giving him was unmistakable. With a sigh he handed over his sandwich and grabbed the turkey he'd brought for her. "I'm trying to cut back on red meat anyway," he muttered.

She added a few chips to the sandwich and grinned up at him. "It's not good for you," she agreed seriously. "My arteries and I will make the sacrifice."

"You and your arteries are the very spirit of altruism," he remarked dryly.

She slid half of the contested roast beef over to him and took half of the turkey, and the two shared a quiet smile before settling down to eat. He stole a chip; she took a long pull from his cup. They chewed in companionable silence and watched as a new shower of snow began adding an additional layer to the already blanketed landscape outside her window.

"So," she remarked as she brushed crumbs off her shirt; gathered their trash, "I guess you're wondering why I needed your handkerchief."

"You were crying."

She rolled her eyes a little. He grinned, then sobered. "Did you talk to Hotch?"

"Yeah, I did." She wouldn't meet his eyes as she refreshed his drink.

"And…?" He took the cup and bottle from her, gently stilling her hands and capturing her gaze with his own.

She sighed; looked away; back again. "He said I'm old enough to know better."

Reid blinked at her. That wasn't what he'd been expecting. "I, um. Oh."

Her mouth curved. "Exactly." She ran both hands through her mahogany hair. "I told him he was being ridiculous, and I think, maybe, he realized I was right."

"I know Hotch's opinion means a lot to you," he offered hesitantly.

"It means a lot to both of us, Spencer. But…professional disapproval I could understand; it's dangerous for two people who work together as we do to get involved; but personal disapproval? He doesn't really have that right."

"Doesn't he? Do you think it's the idea of you and me he doesn't like, or you and anyone?"

She glanced up at him sharply. "Hotch and I—"

"Emily, it's ok. You don't have to explain anything to me. I know if things were different you might be having lunch with him right now instead of me."

She frowned; considered. "Things would have to be a _lot_ different," she finally said with a shake of her head.

"I know." He flashed a self-deprecating little smile. "I just hope, things being as they are, that I'm an adequate substitute."

A range of emotions played across her face, but her eyes were piercing as she said, "No, Spencer, you're not." She held up a hand to forestall him when his mouth opened. "You're not a _substitute_ at all. If I wanted anyone else I wouldn't be here right now. I'm with the person I want to be with, end of story. You know that, right? Tell me you know that."

"Um." He tucked his hands into his pockets like he did when nerves got the better of him. "Well, technically, I came to you, so you were already here…"

"Spencer!" she chastised, exasperated.

"Emily," he replied mildly, brows quirking.

"Spencer," she repeated, face creasing.

"Emily," he said again, softly. He reached for her, and she leaned against him. His hands slid up her back to tangle in her rich dark hair.

"Spencer," she murmured into his shoulder, "it's January ninth."

"I know," he said, resting his cheek against the top of her head.

"Wanna stay for the tenth?"

He breathed out a small chuckle. "Only if you stay for the eleventh."

She grinned; fitted herself more snugly against him. "You've got a deal."

* * *

_So, glad to have that one in the can (again). I'll have a new chapter of "Dancing" for you shortly, and Chapter 5 of that is written. "Still Right Here" is... still not there, sadly, but I'm working on it._

_Reviews make me smile. :)  
_


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